


Cold

by MauraBailey (MauraMae), MauraMae



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MauraMae/pseuds/MauraBailey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MauraMae/pseuds/MauraMae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are cold, fevered. He comes over to comfort you.<br/>(Can be read as either Sherlock or Trek, not a crossover fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold

You sit there, shivering, your black hair damp with cold sweat. Your bottom lip swollen, currently buffering two otherwise chattering jaws.

There you sit, in darkness, half hidden against the wall, fevered-

Until he walks in. Sandy, golden hair, behind him the half-forgotten sight of the light of day as he opens the door to the room.

The only thing you can think about, the only thought that registers as he quickly crosses the room to you- as he stands in front of you- kneels-

"Cold." Through a muddled brain you realise you said the wrong thing, you meant the other, the one he is, the one he ever so is.

Fingers; long, elegant- now needy, grasp at the front of his clothes, pulling him desperately towards you.

Your thin frame, despite being taller than he, seems dwarfish as you are huddled in upon yourself. He moves from crouched in front of you to beside you, and his arms; muscular, and oh-so-warm, envelope you.

He needs not pull you towards him as you freely attempt to shuffle nearer, the heat of his body bleeding, melting, into yours.

Slowly, your tremors stop, and your extremities pass through the numbness into glorious pain which signifies re-awakening.

You stay there though, your fingers clutching at the front of his clothes, head over the beating heart in his chest, your breathing unconsciously aligned with every second heartbeat.

When you do eventually think about moving, when you begin to catalogue your slightly-aching-body and how much effort it will take to lift your tired limbs, you notice that the arms around you are lax, and that comforting soft cheek against your temple is actually a sleep-lolled one.

He has had a busy day, and you cannot find it in yourself to awaken him by moving.

You remain here, warm, comforted, and with a delicious, if illogical, sense of security provided by the sleeping man. You are almost certain that someone will find you both, huddled in the corner of the room, but you do not currently find the prospect too alarming.

For now, all that matters is he found you, he cares enough to have warmed you, and trusts you enough to fall asleep beside you.

You look up slightly, from underneath long eyelashes and unruly black hair, you see him; golden skin and hair, faint wrinkles around his eyes showing the stress of his life- not that he would ever complain- but at the moment, he is relaxed. Peaceful.

As are you.


End file.
